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humanpurposes · 7 months

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Karma is a God

Chapter 13: The Riverlands

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence

Words: 7700

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

The skies over Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point are clear. There are no clouds to hide in and Grey Ghost makes quick work of the distance from Dragonstone to Maidenpool.

The Queen had ordered that she fly straight back to King’s Landing after accompanying Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, but as much as she fears her mother’s wroth, she fears what might happen if she sits idly.

To the south, Borros Baratheon has summoned his banners to Storm’s End. To the west, the Lannisters clash with the Iron Fleet. The Tyrells have taken a neutral stance, but the Hightower army is rebuilding in the Reach, rallying behind Prince Daeron and Criston Cole.

As for the Riverlands… the reports they receive are harrowing.

For almost two moons, Aemond has terrorised the Riverlands, unleashing dragonfire and death upon all those he deems to be traitors. Everything in his path turns to ash; towns, cities, castles, crops, and too many lives to count.

They fly high enough that the world spreads out below them like a map. As they approach the southern shore of the Bay of Crabs, she can see where the green fields turn to black. Smoke rises from the ground, trees reach against a grey sky, charred and bare. No life remains where Vhagar flies.

Could he hear the screams as he did it? Was he blind to the suffering, or did he bathe himself in it?

She had heard the cries of dying men as she burnt the Tyroshi war ships by Driftmark, but they were distant, a noise lingering in the back of her mind. All she remembers of that night is the smell of smoke, flashes of golden flames blurred through her tears, emptiness and rage. Thousands of lives ended, for the sake of avenging two already lost.

It is not the same, she tells herself.

They were soldiers. Any one of them could have been the man who released the quarrel that killed Jace, or manned the ship that sunk the Gay Abandon and young Viserys with it.

Aemond kills because he is cruel.

And I…

Death could not save the people who died at Hightide and Spicetown, it could not bring back her brothers, or any other lives lost at The Gullet. That thought has lingered in her mind ever since, a parasite draining the warmth from her body, the life from her soul.

But this is war. Either she will die a martyr, like Jace, like Rhaenys, or survival will chip away at the person she once was.

Maidenpool is nothing compared to the grandeur of Dragonstone or the high walls and towers of The Red Keep. Its keep and battlements are grey and cobbled, covered in moss and ivy so it blends in seamlessly with the surrounding greenery and the backdrop of the sea.

The castle is not the first thing she spots though, rather the blood red dragon that lies before the outer walls. Caraxes is curled in on himself, in a rare moment of peace as he sleeps. But he stirs as they land, rearing his head and glaring at them through wide, golden eyes.

Grey Ghost is uneasy, and not without cause. The Bloodwyrm is monstrously large, bloodthirsty and chaotic.

She remembers the first time she saw Caraxes, as their families gathered on Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Jace had flown on Vermax, while she, too small to ride Arrax, rode in a carriage with her mother and father. They reached Hightide and suddenly she heard a thunderous roar and a whistling, rippling shriek. What a sight they were, Caraxes and Vhagar, soaring from the East with the sunrise. They terrified her in different ways. Vhagar was colossal, and though Caraxes was smaller, he was swift, with piercing eyes, sharp teeth and a serpentine neck that she couldn’t help but follow as it swayed and slithered.

The gates open before she has dismounted. Daemon leads an escort of guards to meet her, dressed in his riding leathers rather than his armour. He knows not to come too close to Grey Ghost.

Her dragon is steadfastly steady as she dismounts, his head fixed on the men who have dared to approach his rider.

Strangers, hisses the voice in her head. Danger.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister which hangs from his hip. “What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is calm but in a way that makes her nervous.

“Your Grace,” she says, keeping a gloved hand against Grey Ghost’s hide, stroking along his scales to calm him.

Daemon observes this with a small smile, and a turn of his head towards the guards, who relax their stances. “You should know better than to announce on dragonback unannounced.”

“And yet you were able to determine I was not an enemy,” Luke says. “I came from Dragonstone.”

His amusement fades into something more concerned. “Baela and Rhaena?”

Rhaenyra needed a dragon to protect the island and patrol the sea, if necessary. It couldn’t be Tylesys, Sheepstealer was still weak from the encounter with Tessarion, and she wanted Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing to stay in King’s Landing. By the slight frown in Daemon’s face, he has some trepidation about Baela being the one to take on such a burden. But she is brave enough for it, and besides, Dragonstone is defended by water and the Velaryon Fleet. So long as Daeron and Tessarion remain in the Reach, the girls will be safe.

“Your daughters are safely delivered,” she says.

Daemon looks between her and her dragon. “Does your mother approve of you being here?” he asks.

Her breath catches effortlessly in her throat. “She does not know.”

He smiles again. “I have to admit, I did anticipate you might find your way here.”

The small council met the very day they received the first letter from Riverrun.

Prince Aemond has declared a one man war on the Riverlands, intent on burning all those who align themselves to Queen Rhaenyra.

The sight before her eyes was dull and gloomy. She winced at flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder that were not there to be seen or heard. She saw only him, the scar she had left him, the sapphire set within the socket. His voice drifted through her, just out of earshot but there nonetheless.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

“Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

“My nephew must not be left unchecked,” Daemon’s voice said.

Suddenly the other faces in the room materialised into view. Rhaenyra’s eyes were down, fixed on the golden ball placed before her. Lord Corlys’ brow was twisted in contemplation and concern. The other men of the Small Council were watching Daemon, who in turn had his eyes on her.

He watched her for the entirety of their gathering, and she knew what he was looking for. She gave him nothing, not the smallest movement in her face or a hint of an expression. She had become rather well practised at this.

But the moment she was back in her chambers, the moment she was alone, she gave into the fury and fear simmering inside of her. She only managed to seat herself on the edge of her bed before the tears began to stream down her face. She caught them in her palms as she wept.

Aemond was rarely cruel as a child, if he was it was because he had been pushed too far, by Aegon, by Jace, and by her own doing. She had expected him to hate her when she returned to the Red Keep, and she had been right in her assumption. A debt was owed, one he had wanted her to pay with her life.

Whose fault could it be but hers that Aemond had grown into he had become?

A weight hung heavy in her chest. She hadn’t been the one to mount Vhagar or utter the command that scorched the Riverlands, but she knew she had a part in this, in some twisting of fate, in the overlaps and knots in the threads of life.

Two moons passed and hardly anything came from Daemon’s hunt. News would come of a castle or town left in ashes, farms and fields obliterated, whole herds of livestock lost to the dragon’s jaws, but Daemon could not fly fast enough. By the time word reached him of an attack, there would no traceable signs of Aemond and Vhagar but the devastation they left behind.

The night before she left to escort Baela and Rhaena to Dragonstone, she took supper with Lord Corlys and her siblings, which included Alyn and Addam. Moments like this were the closest she came to feeling she had a home in the Red Keep, despite the notable absences. She forced herself to smile as Joffrey tried to imitate everything about Lord Corlys, the way he held his cutlery, the way he leaned back in his chair and kept his cup close to his lips. Her brother was to be the future Lord of the Tides afterall.

Rhaena kept her little pink dragon, Morning, on her shoulder. She and Addam fed her scraps of beef and praised her when she cooed.

Baela sat beside Alyn, with perfect posture and a tight smile on her lips at everything he said. But her resolve was slipping. With every joke Alyn whispered in her ear, she leaned a little further into him and laughed a little louder.

At first the sight made Luke’s stomach churn, as if she could still see the distant battle at The Gullet, like she could still smell the smoke as the Tyroshi ships were bathed in Grey Ghost’s fire. Until she wondered if Jace had ever told Baela of his time at Winterfell, why he had a scar on his palm and why, if she travelled north to see for herself, Cregan Stark would have one to match.

Alyn was charming, Luke supposed, gracious, with a smile that sparked excitement.

What did it matter where Baela chose to seek happiness? Surely it was better that she did not dwell on memories and live her life with the burden of the past. What would that bring but grief and regret?

After seeing young Aegon to bed and allowing Joffrey one game of Cyvasse, Luke visited her mother. Rhaenyra could be found where she usually was, in her father’s chambers sitting by a dying hearth and gazing over the model of Old Valyria, coated with dust and cobwebs after so many years of neglect. Luke sat by her side, tracing her fingertips over her hands and the cuts along her skin. Some were red and fresh, some were older and clotted, others had faded into thin scars.

“They are meaningless,” her mother whispered without turning her eyes to her daughter. “A consequence of our ancestor choosing to forge his throne from the swords of his enemies. My father suffered the same.”

Watching her mother was like watching a warm and golden autumn fade into a desolate winter. She could not endure it for long.

Her back fell against the door as she returned to her bedchamber, frozen in place by what she saw. Another envelope, sealed with a winged insect stamped into amber wax, left on the floor by her bed, exactly where she had found the last one.

She held her breath for a moment, waiting for any kind of sound, a footstep, a voice, a scuttling of a rodent, but whoever had delivered it must have been long gone.

Once again, she reached for the knife by her bedside, slicing through the envelope to save the seal.

There was just one line, and no signature.

Search for him and he will find you.

She knew what had to be done. She could not sit idly, not while her mother’s allies burned and she had a debt of her own to claim.

Daemon steps towards her. “You want to be the one to do it,” he says.

She often has this feeling, like she’s drowning in her own skin. Like the world around her is cold and dark and she cannot breathe. She sees only one way to save herself from it.

“I have to be.”

The castle is quiet, filled with servants who scurry through the halls with their heads down, and knights and Lords who offer no looks of warmth to their Prince and Princess. It is unusual that Daemon does not reprimand them for it.

He sees that she is brought to a chamber that overlooks the sea and is given supper. It is no great feast– many of the crops and livestock of the Riverlands have been lost to Vhagar’s fire, but she is given a plate of shucked oysters and another with white fish and potatoes. Daemon does not eat with her, or visit her once she is finished.

The sounds of the waves roar in her ears as she lies in the bed and pulls the sheets around her. Each time she starts to fall asleep she feels weightless, and suddenly she is slipping from Arrax’s saddle and hurtling through to storm into the waves of Shipbreaker Bay–

But she wakes before her body meets the water.

A maid comes to her early in the morning just after sunrise. She bathes and dresses in her riding leathers, firmly fixing her sword to her hip, letting her fingertips linger on the golden seahorse hilt.

“He should be taken as a prisoner,” was Lord Corlys’ counter to Daemon’s pledge to find Aemond. “If he is dead, the Greens will make a King of Daeron and rally behind him.”

Rhaenyra at last looked up when he said it. “My brother forsook any chance of mercy when he tried to claim the life of my daughter,” she said.

Grey Ghost and Caraxes wait for them beyond the castle walls, restless the way dragons always are before they take flight.

“I have word from Sabitha Frey,” Daemon says before they mount their dragons. “She has recaptured Harrenhal along with the Blackwoods.”

“I can’t imagine it was difficult,” Luke says. “It was left completely undefended.”

Daemon chuckles as he hauls himself into Caraxes’ saddle, a much steeper climb than it is for her to mount Grey Ghost. Aemond would have further to climb than either of them, a thought which she tries to dismiss.

“We have our hold in the Riverlands once more,” he calls to her as Caraxes starts to move. The dragon whistles like a dolphin and bellows a screeching roar as he lurches forward, bounding off the ground and swiftly ascending into the air with powerful beats of his wings that shake the trees. Daemon steers him west, over the burned landscape.

Danger, whispers the voice in her head.

She drives Grey Ghost forward nonetheless.

As they fly, the air around them is hazy and thick. Luke keeps her sleeve over her nose and mouth. She is used to wind and rain rushing against her face, but smoke is a different beast altogether. It stings in her eyes, burns in her throat, seeps into her lungs and her bloodstream.

Heat lingers even after the fires have died and eaten everything away to ash. She feels it through her leathers.

Harrenhal is not out of place among this scorched wasteland. She sees the lake first, as vast as an ocean, black water glimmering under the sun’s early rays, splashes of white foam with the waves. In the centre is an island, so thick with trees she cannot see the ground underneath.

She feels unsettled, as though she is being watched. This must be the famed God’s Eye.

Standing over the water, shrouded in smoke and mist, is Harrenhal. She can see the path of Balerion’s fire through the five towers, where the stone is melted, twisted, and crumbled to ruins.

Harwin Strong once told her of the curse of Harrenhal, that every family who dared to hold it was doomed to meet a terrible end, and now her mother’s banners hang over the front gates.

Caraxes lands on the lakeshore where Daemon waits for her to dismount. This is a place familiar to him. This is where he was when news came of Arrax’s demise above Shipbreaker Bay. This is where he gave the order to seek justice for the deaths of his daughters. He remained here while Rhaenys burned at Rook’s Rest, as the Triarchy sank the ship that carried his son, as the Velaryon Fleet held The Gullet, as Jace and Vermax were lost to quarrels and treacherous waters.

Now is not the time to unleash her anger, but Daemon has always had a way of seeing right through her.

He leads her up the slight slope to the gatehouse, into the castle itself. The soldiers they pass bear the sigils of the Freys and the Blackwoods, proud and powerful houses of the Riverlands. Unlike those they passed at Maidenpool, the men and women here look upon their Prince with reverence. Daemon, with Dark Sister by his side, his short, silver hair braided away from his face, looks nothing less than a force of nature, a warrior, a would-be-King, the kind of man to inspire fear from both his enemies and his allies.

And when the fearful eyes come to her, they become curious. It is a question that has haunted her all her life; what do they see when they look at her? A Velaryon, a Targaryen or a Strong? A Princess, an heir, or an outlier, an insult to custom and duty? Perhaps now they see what she has become.

She follows Daemon through quiet hallways, through archways and holes in the walls where there should be doors, until they come to a cavernous hall. The light hardly reaches through the glassless windows on the far side of the room, but she makes out arches and buttresses hundreds of feet high, hearths untouched for decades. On the walls there are carvings of the sigil of House Hoare, images of the sea, krakens and sea monsters, men bathing– or drowning, under the dim light of the braziers, the last remnants of the Iron Islanders who once made this their home.

In the centre of the hall, still quite a distance away, is a table, around which a man and two women are gathered. Candlelight flickers against their faces as she and Daemon approach.

A woman stands at the head of the table, studying a map of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Her chestplate bears two sigils, one of a black toad, one of two, blue towers. Her hair is pulled tightly from her face. Despite the soft, round edges of her cheeks and jaw, there is a stern look about her, a sharpness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth.

The man is young, dressed in armour, marked by the sigil of a weirwood surrounded by ravens. He has a head of curly black hair, to match the second woman, only hers reaches below her waist. She is breathtakingly beautiful, tall and broad, dressed in white and black with a red cloak hanging from her shoulders.

“Princess Lucerra,” Daemon says, ushering Luke to stand at the other end of the table, overlooking the Kingswood and the Rose Road past Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. “Lady Sabitha Frey, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall, and Lady Alysanne Blackwood.”

Only now do they look at her, with the same curiosity that she is used to.

“What an honour it is to be acquainted with you, Princess,” Lady Sabitha says, stiffly.

The two Blackwoods bow their heads, and Lady Alysanne offers her a small smile.

“We are glad to have you join us, Prince Daemon,” says Lord Benjicot.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement as he sets Dark Sister down on the table. “It seems a far more convenient base than Maidenpool,” he says, darkly.

A gust of wind howls in the distance. It is quiet, but with the echo through the hall it sounds monstrous and unnatural.

Lady Sabitha seems to have command of this gathering. Luke has heard rumours of Lady Frey’s character, most of them from Daemon. He says she is merciless and efficient. She finds she agrees with this assessment, but rather admires her for it. She has lost her husband in this war, and now her seat. The Twins, along with her son, have been taken by the Lannisters, who now block the road south.

“The Riverlands are loyal to you, Your Grace,” she says to Daemon, “but we have little chance of mustering more men than we have here.”

“What of the Tullys?” Luke asks.

Lady Alysanne sighs. “They cannot be relied upon. Elmo Tully would pledge their banners to the true Queen, but he will not act against Lord Grover’s wishes.”

“The Lord of Riverrun is as decisive as he is young and spritely,” Daemon says. “We cannot afford to wait for the old man to die while the Hightowers recover their strength.”

“But with Jason Lannister at the Twins, the Starks will have to fight through an army to reach us,” Alysanne says.

They fall into quiet, studying the map and the figures upon it, the hightower in the Reach, the stag at the edge of the Stormlands, the lion and the wolf to the north.

“And then there is the more pressing issue,” Lord Benjicot says darkly.

Luke counts the dragons upon the map. Tessarion in the Reach; Moondancer at Dragonstone; Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, Tyraxes and Dreamfyre at King’s Landing. Lady Sabitha moves Caraxes and Grey Ghost to Harrenhal. Two figures remain, a golden dragon for Sunfyre, kept at the edge of the map, and Vhagar, hovering over Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper.

“He was last seen here?” Luke asks quietly, reaching out a finger, but stopping herself before she touches Vhagar’s figure.

“Not three days ago,” Benjicot says. He places the tip of his finger over Riverrun first. “He began his assaults here, after Harrenhal was abandoned. He won’t directly attack the Tullys, but he targeted the lands that surround them.” Then he traces east, over the towns along the River Road, marking Aemond’s warpath.

“I went to Darry,” Daemon says, “by the time I got there, Vhagar was feasting on whole farms of sheep at the border of the Vale.”

“We think he might be seeking shelter here–” Lord Benjicot points to the mountain range that marks the border of the Westerlands. “Out of Prince Daemon’s reach, close enough to continue his attacks.”

“And he was not seen after Pink Maiden?” Luke says.

“He attacked at nightfall. Even with Vhagar’s size, it was impossible to tell where they went.”

Her eyes follow as he moves Vhagar’s figure to the mountains, and a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. The weight strains her neck.

“Perhaps I could ride out on Grey Ghost and search the mountains?” she says.

Daemon does not give the others a moment to consider. “I will not allow you to use yourself as bait.”

What is the difference? He would be happy for her to meet him in open battle, but not to seek him out as she had done with Daeron?

She knows better than to test the patience of Daemon Targaryen, but her own has been wearing thin for far too long.

“And how else do you intend to find him?” she asks. “You have searched for Aemond for moons and to no avail. Do you expect him to come to us willingly?”

“He is proud enough to do so,” Daemon mutters.

“Then where is he? Why has he not sought you out?”

“Enough.” He does not need to shout. His anger is apparent enough for her to bow her head and listen in to the rest of the gathering in silence.

There is nothing for her in Harrenhal but death.

She takes an abandoned servant’s quarters as a bedchamber, by the kitchens in Widow’s Tower, until Daemon tells her of the horror found in the crypt underneath.

Their bodies were left in the cellar, slaughtered within a cell, some simply run through, others slashed to shreds. There was no sense to it, no reason for Aemond to kill his prisoners or bring such a bloody end to House Strong– well, almost.

She wonders why he did it and how he can live with himself in the aftermath. He had not even spared the children. She pictures them cowering, helpless to watch as their family were picked off, one by one, before Aemond at last set his one, violet eye to them.

But Aemond kills because he is cruel, and soon that cruelty will be ended.

She cannot stay in the tower knowing what lies underneath. So she takes her sword and climbs the staircases, past empty chambers and passageways. She doesn’t know what she is expecting. Whatever was left of Ser Harwin or his belongings would have been removed years ago, and while Harrenhal may belong to his family, he always said he never felt at home here. She sees why for herself.

Her legs burn as she climbs higher, where the tower becomes decrepit. The stairways are treacherous now, she wonders if they might crumble under her boots and yet she carries on, passing rubble never cleared and gaps in the tower where the walls were lost to the Black Dread’s fire.

She comes to a bridge, high above the courtyard leading into the castle’s tallest tower, the Kingspyre. There are at least some signs of life in this part of the castle, servants, lit torches and hearths.

She passes a chamber with a great oak door, adorned with carvings of sea creatures with grotesque faces, waves and ships, the three rivers of the Trident and, when she looks closely, pairs of eyes hidden amongst the images.

She expects it to be locked, but tries the handle, only for it to open, seamlessly and silently.

It is a grand chamber, to be sure, perhaps intended for the Lord of the castle. There are no belongings in the room, no sign of ownership, and yet it is well kept. The sheets are clean, the logs of the hearth set and ready to be set alight It smells stale and stagnant, but not like the lingering smell of smoke found in the rest of Harrenhal.

She hesitates, then smooths her palm over the bedsheets to find they are cold. This chamber must have been in use recently, but not recently enough to warrant immediate attention.

She wanders to the window, overlooking the courtyard, the gatehouse and the God’s Eye beyond the walls. The figures in the courtyard are distant but still distinct. Daemon’s silver hair is obvious as he stands with a woman. At first she mistakes her for Lady Alysanne; she is seemingly tall and slender with dark hair, but something about her posture is different, the way she tilts her head as she leans closer to Daemon.

The wind wails beyond the walls of the tower and for a moment it sounds soft, like a breath.

The woman turns her gaze up, to the very window Luke stands behind. She can make out the colour of her eyes– green, brighter and paler than Lady Alysanne’s. They must be truly striking at a ground level, because from here they are piercing.

A sick feeling floods Luke’s stomach. She should not be here, not in this room, perhaps not even at Harrenhal, but she cannot find the courage to leave.

When she makes her way down the stairs of the tower and into the courtyard, Daemon and the woman are gone. Instead she finds the castle’s Godwood, following the small stream that runs through it, to the heart tree.

The faces in the bark are nothing like those in King’s Landing. These faces are full of anguish, twisted, mouths open as if they are screaming, in pain or fury.

A chill slips down her spine and she knows she is being watched– not by the eyes in the tree. A footstep treads softly in the grass behind her. She turns her head over her shoulder, just enough for them to know she has heard them.

The footsteps are less careful now, unabashed in their approach.

She sees a flash of dark hair, at first believing it to be Lady Alysanne, only to find herself disappointed, and then a little on edge.

It is the woman from the courtyard, the woman with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you often find yourself seeking the comfort of a weirwood, Princess?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly low, rich and seductive.

She never used to, but she seems to have noticed them more since they took King’s Landing. She passes the weirwood in the gardens of the keep, sees the image of one above her bed, finds her mind wandering to memories of afternoons she spent under the shelter of red leaves and her uncle’s arm as he read from a history book.

“What business of it is yours?” Luke says sharply.

The woman hums a low laugh and lets it fade to silence.

Night is beginning to creep in. Beyond the walls of the castle, the sight of the sunset over the lake will be beautiful, a red sky over the water. She hears the waves and the wind as if she is standing on the shore.

“It is a terrible thing to lose one’s family,” the woman says, bringing her hands before her. Her dress is made of simple black fabric, with no patterns or distinctive embroidery, but the sleeves are long, draped over her hands and lined with green satin.

Luke catches a piece of flesh between her teeth. “You have lost family in this war too?” she says, uncaring at her shortness.

The woman tilts her head. Luke watches her as she takes a step towards the tree, placing her palm against the white bark, beside one of the faces. “The family I have lost was never mine to begin with. In truth, I do not feel it,” she says.

A hollow feeling lodges itself in Luke’s chest and twists like a knife in an already fatal wound. She wishes she could say the same.

The woman drops her hand from the tree, and turns to her. “Do you feel your losses, Lucerra?”

The absence of her brothers becomes a little more subdued each day, but she still carries them with her, the memories, the pain of knowing that their deaths were anything but peaceful, and the burden Jace has left her with.

She was so fearless as a child, she realises. She was secure, the daughter of a Princess, the granddaughter of the King, with Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Jace to guide her, protect her. But all of that is gone now, the life she used to enjoy, and she fears the things she used to love.

Tears prickle in her eyes, heavy and close to falling.

How much can the woman read from a single look from her eyes?

She steps forward to take Luke’s hands in hers. Her skin is rough and dry. She opens Luke’s palms, running a slender finger along the lines in her skin. “A powerful combination of blood flows through your veins,” she utters. “The blood of the dragon, and of the First Men.”

Daemon has taken heads for such an insinuation.

Luke raises her brow. “Do you question my legitimacy?”

The woman scoffs. “ Laws are made by men, but we are made of flesh and blood alone. Legitimacy has no meaning in the natural order.”

“And yet without it, my position will never be secure,” Luke says.

The woman stares at her, amused or mocking, it is difficult to tell.

“It was not by right of birth that Aegon the Conqueror claimed rule of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She thinks of all the history lessons she used to sit through, never taking in a word. All the hours she would make Aemond read to her– did he hate her back then? Would he have refused her if he felt he had the choice? “No. But he won it, and had the strength to hold it.”

The woman hums. She runs her hand further up, to the thin, blue veins running along Luke’s wrist. She presses her thumb against her skin, letting the colour fade and run again.

Her harsh green eyes come to Luke’s. “Blood is unambiguous,” she whispers.

Why must it all come back to blood?

The woman seems to note some kind of change in Luke’s face, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brow just a little. What does she think she might find in the frightened and furious mind of hers?

“Helaena said something to me,” Luke utters before she can stop herself.

“She spoke of blood,” the woman says, assuredly.

There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.

Luke breathes slowly. She has tried to decipher Helaena’s words for weeks, moons even.

Her aunt used to mutter strange musings often, always to Aegon’s insistence that she was stupid and freakish. Jace’s stance was that he would not burden himself with things that did not make sense to him, and so she did the same.

Blood– blood she shares with her mother and the line of Kings that have come before them. Blood she shares with her brothers, with her father. Blood she shares with Helaena and her uncles. Blood spilled, lives ended or left in ruins. This war has seen too much of it already.

“What did she tell you, Princess?”

She whispers the words that have haunted her since she heard them, but where Helaena’s voice was gentle and wistful, she feels a tremble in her own throat. “There is a trail of blood. It flows to you. It ends with you.”

The woman frowns, keeping her gaze on Luke’s eyes as though the answer lies within her very soul. The longer she looks, the duller her eyes seem to become.

“What do you believe this means?” the woman asks.

Daemon says killing Aemond will end the war, or at least determine the outcome. Corlys says it will weaken their enemies, but give them cause to regather their strength. Her mother would say it is justice.

Kill Aemond and the threat of Vhagar will be removed. What remains of the Riverlands will be spared, Daeron and Tessarion will stand alone. Then they need only wait for Cregan Stark to march south to secure their victory.

It should all be so simple.

So why does she feel the wind running through her? Why does she feel so restless and furious that her body trembles and her nails press into her palms? Why does she hear the crashing of waves morphing into distance screams? Why does she feel so wrong?

The woman’s voice is perhaps the one thing that sounds true, clear and low. “Mercy is a weakness.”

She knows she has no reason to trust this woman, but the rage inside her tells her she is right. She may never know the number of men she has killed from atop her dragon, so what is one more? One more life lost, a fair exchange for what he has taken from her.

But it will be different to know the name of the man whose life she will claim, to know his face and his voice. To share his memories and his blood.

Mercy is a weakness– it sounds like something Daemon might say.

“What are you doing here?” The command in his voice as he approaches startles them both. Luke tears her eyes away from the woman, to the head of silver hair gleaming in twilight.

She begins to panic. Was she supposed to stay in the castle? The hour is getting late, perhaps he was concerned… but he doesn’t so much as look at Luke. His gaze is clearly on the woman.

“I was beginning to worry you might be dead,” he says.

The woman’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was spared by his Grace, the Prince Regent.”

Daemon scoffs, utterly unamused. Only then does he turn to Luke. “What poison are you inflicting on the poor girl?”

“Poison?” she echoes with a sly expression.

“That is your way, is it not, witch?”

This does not seem to phase the woman.

Daemon hums a short laugh, but his expression remains dark. “You were supposed to deliver my nephew to me…”

She hates this, not knowing the whole truth of what is happening around her, the secret devices and plots. The familiarity between Daemon and the woman is beginning to infuriate her, until her chest feels heavy with the weight of the breaths she takes to calm herself.

“...But by the sounds of it, it seems all you’ve succeeded in doing is keeping his cock wet.”

Suddenly her chest and stomach twist into a tight knot.

It is not an image she wants in her head, but it appears nonetheless. The woman standing before her is a beautiful one, and Aemond is a Prince, a warrior, hot-blooded and demanding when he wants to be.

Her imagination is vivid and visceral. She has felt his lips against hers, his breath on her skin, his hand tracing down the front of her gown and slipping beneath her skirts. She had almost expected him to take her fully that night, in the hidden corner of the Red Keep while their families failed to make amends. She often wonders if she should have let him.

Does he ever think about that night? What he did to her— what they did together, or was it all forgotten the moment he saw the pair of eyes bearing into her soul this very moment?

“He will come,” the woman says.

Daemon chuckles to himself. “For his paramour?”

Her piercing gaze falls once more to Luke. Her eyes are dark now and almost bloodthirsty. “He will come for what he believes he is owed.”

And so they wait.

Thirteen days pass. Daemon marks each one with a slash of Dark Sister in the trunk of the heart tree in the Godswood. Each strike bleeds red sap.

She tries to make use of each day, but there are only so many arrows she can shoot into targets and tree trunks, only so many times she can sharpen her sword before she will damage the blade.

All the while there is no word of Aemond and no sightings of Vhagar. Whenever she gathers in the great hall with Daemon, Sabitha Frey and the Blackwoods, she scours the map as if she will somehow know where to find him.

Daemon refuses to let her ride Grey Ghost, not even to circle the lake. He says the risk is too great, but since when did he ever burden himself with risks?

This castle was built on blood and is haunted by the Stranger. In another life Harrenhal might have been her home, but she fears she may not be able to stay here much longer. Her sanity cannot bear it.

She tries to find a new chamber to sleep in each night, but rest never comes easily. When she wakes she recalls dreams of the lake. In these dreams, she does not walk along the shore or try to find her way back to the castle. She lies against the pebbled beach, her head cradled in scaly limbs, a longing for blood in her belly and an ominous feeling that keeps her grounded.

Search for him and he will find you.

Luke rises with the sun. From the battlements, she can see Daemon in the godswood, carving his fourteenth strike into the weirwood tree. To the lakeshore she makes out the shape of her slumbering dragon. Grey Ghost blends in almost perfectly with the morning mist, until she spots one of his yellow eyes, wide and bright enough to spot from the castle.

She retreats to her little bedchamber in the Tower of Dread, tucks herself under the bedsheet, rough and scratchy with age, and shuts her eyes.

She stares back at the castle, and knows she will be safe within its walls— for now at least.

Her body is not her own, but she settles in it. This is not a brief moment of madness as with Tessarion. This feels like an extension of her dreams, something natural and familiar. Her movements are deliberate as she rises and spreads her wings.

She leaves Harrenhal behind, darting up towards the sky with all the speed she can gather, until the lake and the lands around Harrenhal are set out before her.

Aemond has not followed a particular path, so it stands to reason his hiding place may not be where she expects it to be. He could be in the mountains southwest of Pinkmaiden, or he could be somewhere else entirely.

If he has not been seen since then, perhaps he is somewhere more isolated.

By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky, she has flown over most of the western Riverlands, over Raventree Hall, Acorn Hall, Pinkmaiden and Stone Mill. She can see she is approaching Riverrun, the seat of the Tullys. They do not fly any banners, and yet their men are gathered and preparing for war.

Where to then? Along the Red Fork to the Trident, to the mountains that border The Vale? Or over Whispering Wood, where the mountains meet the sea along Ironman’s Bay?

Intinstic drives her north with a swift beating of her wings.

A swirl of storm clouds looms over the Iron Islands, but the rain has yet to reach the mainland. A fearsome wind threatens to blow her off course and below her the waves beat against the base of the cliffs, crashing and roaring against the rock with flurries of white foam. Grey Ghost does not fear the sea and for now, neither does she.

She flies high, sweeping her eyes along the slivers of shoreline that have not been claimed by the tide, searching for any sign of another dragon, a nest, a charred carcass of an animal. That’s when she hears a growl, like a rumble of thunder, echoing through the air as if the very sky seeks to unleash its fury.

Vhagar rises from her hiding place, half-buried in damp sand and the rest of her hide blending in with the rock. She feels the heat coursing through her blood when the dragons meet each other’s eyes, the fire rising in her gut, the urge to sink her teeth and talons into flesh.

But she looks up to the clifface, to the figure standing on an overhang. His sapphire eye gleams through the dull daylight, the ends of his silver hair drift with the wind and the beating of her wings.

Aemond.

He knows what Grey Ghost’s presence means, she can see it in his face, the awe and the anger. She would be a fool to think he would feel anything else.

He will come for what he believes he is owed.

And what of the debt he owes her now?

When does it end?

When she opens her eyes her skin is drenched in sweat. She tosses the sheet off her body and hurries to dress herself in her riding leathers. Grey Ghost will fly swifter than Vhagar, but she needs every second she can claim. With her boots pulled over her feet and her sword on her hip, she yanks the door open, sprinting through the halls and the courtyard. She doesn’t stop when some of the soldiers stare at her in confusion, or when Lady Alysanne tries to stop her and ask what’s wrong. She couldn’t answer them if she tried.

She feels her heart beating at all her pulse points, the wind slicing over her skin, the howling of the wind coming off the lake.

Daemon is in the Godswood, under the heart tree, resting his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister. He turns to face her as she approaches.

She is breathless, but her voice has never sounded clearer. “He’s coming.”

“How?”

How did he know to come? How do you know?

“I saw it,” she says.

Daemon frowns. In fairness, she herself would not trust such a vague answer.

She follows him back to the courtyard. The castle is in a panic now; the men are restless. Daemon fetches something from the armoury, a bow and a quiver of arrows. They are slim, not enough to pierce the hide of the dragon, but enough to shoot through the flesh of a man.

“Remember everything he has taken from you,” he says before he hands them to her. “Aemond may share your blood, but he is not one of us.”

She nods, and fastens them over her back.

Grey Ghost flies over the castle as the sun begins to set.

Luke and Daemon both know what they must do. She joins her dragon, hiding amongst a line of trees on the eastern shore of the lake, while Daemon waits in the open, and calls for Caraxes.

From the shadows of the trees, she watches the sky turn from blue, to gold, to red.

A shape flies before the sun and for a moment the world goes black.

She has never forgotten the fear she felt when she heard Vhagar’s call at Storm’s End, as she saw her shape through the clouds and stared into her open jaws. That same fear ripples through her body and makes her blood run cold, but she does not shy from it.

A thousand voices cry out in her head. Screams of the men she condemned to burn. Cries of anguish and mourning. Raised voices, calls for justice and retribution.

Mercy is a weakness. She finds herself wishing the world had more mercy.

But one voice appears clearer than the rest.

Blood– her heart in her chest.

Blood– the sky through the branches, illuminating the lake.

Blood. Blood she shares with Kings, Princes and dragons.

She has seen Aemond’s blood before and felt it against her skin. She is sure she will see it and feel it again before the night has reached its end.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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gromlyn · 3 hours

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Caraxes, The Bloodwyrm

#my take on my favorite special boy #continuing my asoiaf dragon designs slowly but surely #my art #asoiaf fanart #asoiaf dragons #caraxes #a song of ice and fire #dragon art #asoiaf #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanart #artists on tumblr #procreate #digital art

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vhagarsflame · 1 year

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His Sapphire Queen

Summary: Aemond was meant to die over the God's Eye fighting his uncle Daemon. However, he did not. He returns, broken and bleeding to Kings Landing when he finds that his sister Rhaenyra has taken his Throne and hurt his wife. He will have his revenge, he will stop at nothing to protect her and his kingdom. He even brought Daemons head as a gift for his usurping sister...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife

Warnings: Graphic violence, beheading, NSFW, blood, gore and Saviour!Aemond. Aemonds POV.

Word count: 2,9 k ps: Written in a few hours, in the middle of the night, with a headache. Please ignore grammar mistakes. This post is constantly disappearing: can also be found on AO3 under the same name!

King Aemond Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm was shaking. His sword was heavy in his hand as he commanded Vhagar to fly higher. The Stormlands were famous for their treacherous weather and today was no different. He shook the water out of his face and spurred Vhagar on. She roared in compliance and flew faster. He knew from the beginning that this had been a trap. All of it. He had left. He had left her. Alone. He was so bent on revenge that the second he had heard that his uncle Daemon had gathered a host at Harrenhal to wait for him he had left. He had left everything behind and raced for the castle, the cursed castle of Harren the Black, overlooking the near bottomless lake The Gods Eye. He had come upon Harrenhal to find it empty and burning. Daemon had put everyone inside the walls to the sword. And then he had waited for his nephew, for 17 days. Waited long enough to draw him away from Kings Landing and his Queen, waited for Rhaenyra to sack the city in his absence. And she had. Violently.

Daemon had said as much when he mounted Caraxes and laughed in his face. "Your pretty whore won't be as pretty when my wife is finished with her!" he had spat. Aemonds rage knew no bounds. He had commanded Vhagar to follow Caraxes, and she did. The much smaller Bloodwyrm would be no match for the legendary War Dragon. Daemon knew it too. Aemond knew it was kill or be killed, as he soared higher on Vhagar trying to spot his uncle in the massive thunderclouds. The fucking fiend and his wyrm had the advantage, they were smaller and therefore more difficult to see. But now, Vhagar had smelled them, and there was nothing he could to to slow her down as she dived for them. They had hid close to the ground, hiding among the blood and broken bodies of Harrenhals army. They took off again as soon as they saw Vhagar diving for them, flinging remains left and right. Aemond could still remember the twisted bodies and agonising expressions of the people speared on the gates of the castle when he had arrived.

"Where the fuck are you." he grumbled as he clung to his sword. The steel had gotten slippery and hard to hold on to because of the blood caking it. His hair whipped at his face as Vhagar soared up again still looking for the Wyrm and his rider. The bolt of flame came out of nowhere, Aemond barely escaped it by throwing himself forward on Vhagar shielding himself behind her wing. They had been at this for days, Aemond knew Vhagar was tired, he could hear her laboured breathing and he knew they had to finish soon otherwise both she and him would plummet to their deaths in the Gods Eye. "Fight me you fucking coward!" Aemond screamed to the winds, unsure if his uncle actually heard him. "Even your cunt of a wife has more balls than you!" She did in fact, she had taken a city while Daemon nailed people to the gates of Harrenhal. Vhagar veered left and opened her massive jaws, she roared and unleashed her dragonfire upon the world. Her flames were black as night, they were hot enough to melt armour and cook the fucker wearing it from the inside. The flames engulfed the castle his uncle was currently hiding behind and streaming rivers of molten rock, mortar and iron washed down the sides of the big tower. The Bloodwyrms screams of pain engulfed the night, and Aemond knew she was wounded badly. But, somehow she was still flying. Aemond cursed the gods and rode Vhagar closer. His uncle was limp in the saddle, Dark Sister still in his hand, deadly fury in his eyes as he flew past them, then above them. And then he leaped, just as Caraxes lost his fight and fell, he had used the momentum and the thick hide of his dragon to jump, straight for them. He had done so on Vhagars blind side and she had no idea what had hit her. She was more interested in the falling carcass of Caraxes, eager to take her trophy.

Aemonds uncle collided with him in a clash of valyrian steel, flesh and teeth. His helmet had fallen off hours ago and his left arm was hanging limp by his side. Aemond no longer had his eye patch and the sapphire gleamed in the lightning storm that raged around them.

Aemond tried his best to guide Vhagar and fend off his uncle at the same time, but his uncle was smarter. He drove his sword through Vhagars wing, forcing her to land, forcing her to stop defending her rider. By doing so he had managed to hack loose one of the straps holding Aemonds saddle and he could feel it slipping between his legs. Daemon held on to the other side of Vhagar, clinging to the chains for dear life. Vhagar fell. They fell faster and faster every moment and Aemond knew he would be crushed in the fall, so would his uncle for that matter, but that would render his revenge unfulfilled. With a roar to scare the gods Vhagar used the last strength she had to land on her legs and not on her rider and his traitor uncle.

Aemond managed to climb back up in the saddle just before she crashed to the ground and got the upper hand on his uncle. His leg was stuck beneath Vhagars body and he could not move. "Go on then, nephew. Kill me if you please" Daemon grunted, his face caked in blood and his hand still holding his blade. Aemond just sneered. "Unlike yourself, uncle. I am not a coward or a traitor and I will beat you in a fair fight. Drag your carcass out from under my dragon and face me like a man" He spat and retreated a few steps. His body was still working, he was sore and stiff but not gravely injured. The scratches, cuts, bruises and burns would heal. His uncle would not. Aemond watched him as he tried to rise and understood that his left arm was ripped out of its socket. Daemons armour was almost falling off him, the straps had finally reached their limit. "I was killing on the battlefield before you were even born!" his uncle said as he came toward him, sword raised and eyes blazing. Aemond didnt answer, he paid attention to his feet and moved fluidly around his uncle. Stepping around the puddles of guts and severed heads lying on the ground. Slippery. The once so fierce warrior Daemon Targaryen looked nothing like he had in his youth. He had grown puffy and lazy during the peace, started his training again during the Dance. Aemond had held a sword everyday since he learned how. Gruelling practice every day for years, he had been trained by the best swordsmen in the realm. What he didnt learn from them, he picked up in books, reading about battle after battle and tactic after tactic.

Aemond kept moving around his uncle, making sure not to turn his back against him. Daemon was tired. It was plain as day, and then his uncles violet eyes hardened. "I cannot wait to see what my wife has done to your whore when I deliver her your head" he snarled. Attacking.

He ran for Aemond, sword out, shoulder back and weight placed evenly on his legs. Aemond deflected the blow and moved in the other direction, closer to Vhagar and away from his uncle. "I told her to chain her to the throne, Valyrian steel is not easy to break. She is to sit there until she starves to death. How long have you been gone now, Aemond? Half a turn of the moon?" Daemon laughed then, and spat on the ground. "She will be bones when I return. But don't fret, I will bury you together. In the pit used for common whores and usurper princes." Aemond roared, he couldn't breathe, think or feel. The blackened lump that was his heart that she had managed to heal cracked apart again, igniting in him a rage he had never felt before. He ran for his uncle, lifting his sword and slashing at whatever parts he could reach. Some of the slashes took, slicing into his uncles legs, torso and his arm. The last slice made him drop his blade and Aemond kicked it aside. "Now, Uncle," Aemond said as he stepped on Daemons injured arm, drawing the most pleasant noises of unending pain he had ever heard uttered. "You see, the problem is, that I have taught my wife how to keep herself alive. I have taught her to fight and to protect herself and her family. If by any sort of godly miracle your cunt of a wife has managed to chain her she will end you all." "She is already dead" Daemon spat as the colour leeched from his face. Aemond stopped breathing, there was such unending silence in his mind. It had gone from roaring with revenge and despair to complete silence in the blink of an eye. "Well then, uncle. I have no more need of you."

Aemond turned around, looked at his uncles sword, Dark Sister, the legendary blade that had once belonged to Queen Visenya and picked it up. Daemon was already on his feet, charging with nothing but his fists. Daemon did not stand a chance. One second he had the look of cold fury on his face, and the next his eyes had dimmed. Aemond had swung the sword through his uncles neck severing his spinal cord, blood vessels and sinew. His uncles head fell to the ground at his feet and his dead body fell next to it with a soft thud. His blood was leaking out of his body and colouring the already red ground and the rivers that flowed around them with the blood of the dragon. Aemond smirked and picked up his uncles head by his long white hair and walked over to Vhagar. She was still alive, not gravely wounded and definitely fit for one last trip home to rescue his wife. He had thought of the perfect gift to give his usurping, cunt of a sister as he impaled Daemons head on his own sword and climbed up on Vhagars back.

***

The streets of Kings Landing were quiet. Everything was silent. Until he reached the first set of gates. He saw former members of his mothers Queensguard impaled on spikes, some of them still alive. He pulled his hood further down over his face when people passed him. All of them were in a daze, no one even looked at the bodies. Even more bodies met him every time he walked through a new set of gates. For a conquering bitch-Queen she had not made it difficult to get to her. The red and black banners of house Targaryen had replaced the previous green and gold. The Red Keep was quiet too, but it was a different kind of quiet. It felt like he was expected. The very air hummed around him. He kept the sword behind his back as he walked up the steps to the throne room. He had not thought about what he would do if he found his wifes dead body instead of the living one. He didn't dare think it. The doors to the throne room opened and he walked through them. His eye immediately flying to the frail body of his wife. She was lying face down on the floor beneath the throne. Her dress was ripped off her, she had massive welts on her naked back, as if someone had whipped her or beaten her with a hot iron poker, repeatedly. She did not move. Aemond had never known such anger. She was chained. One end of the chain had been welded to the Iron Throne, the other was fastened to a collar placed around her neck. So tight that even to swallow would hurt. His brave wife, who was left to rule in his absence, beaten, broken and abused because he was hellbent on revenge. "Prince Aemond Targaryen, your Grace" Ser Arryk said, or was it Erryk, either way, one of the cunt twins in his sisters Queensguard announced him. Aemond spat on the floor. And there she was, with a smug look on her plain face. She has grown wider since the last time he saw her, and blood was pooling by her feet. She must have been repeatedly cut by the throne when she decided to take it. The Throne chooses, he had never been cut neither had his wife, not even when he had taken her upon it. "Prince Aemond. Come to rescue your whore?" Rhaenyra Targaryen snarled, she pointed at the frail figure lying on the floor. She had not yet stirred and Aemonds heart fell out of his chest. "You are sitting in my wifes place," he said, still looking at his wife. "Move". "I think she looks better where she is, dont you agree?" Rhaenyra replied and lifted her hand to one of the guard standing behind his wife. Before he could even think they had dragged her up by her long pale hair and tossed her toward him, the chain she had around her neck had been stretched taut and she gagged as the air was forced out of her lungs when she landed. Aemond shook. Yet, he only walked closer to his sister and removed his hand from behind his back. "I come bearing gifts" he said as he ripped her husbands head from his sword and tossed it to her. It landed at her feet with a disgusting squelch. "Are you hurt badly, my love?" he asked when his wife had regained her strength and looked at him. "No, cuts and bruises only" she wheezed, her hand clamouring to get the blood off her face. He knew that if he moved to help her the guard would kill her, and so did she. "Be brave, my Queen" he said and turned to his sister.

Rhaenyras scream filled the hall as she launched herself off his throne. "I will kill you for this" she screamed as she drew Viserys' dagger and came for him. “You killed my husband and I will have your head for it. Your wife’s next” "The Throne decides," he said not taking his eye off her "and since you have managed to draw blood to such an extent that it pools at your feet, I'd say you are not fit to sit upon it!" "Craven" she hissed and engaged. The sounds of Valyrian steel meeting clanged off the walls. Rhaenyra was not the fighter she thought she was, Aemond knew it. But he needed to tire her out, make her slip. "Funnily enough, that is the exact same thing your cunt of a husband said right before I cut off his head." Aemond growled. "I told him I would go right here, kill you and then put the rest of your bastards to the sword, as payment for my brother, his wife and their children!". Rhaenyra looked at him, for a fleeting moment she was scared. She was scared for her remaining children and Aemond used that to his advantage. He struck. Hammering the flat side of her husbands sword down on her wrist, making her lose both her dagger and her balance. Rhaenyra fell to the floor. No one did anything. Her Queensguard stood idle. "Do you see what happens when you slaughter an entire city of innocents? When you torture the Queen?" Aemond mused. "No one will come to your rescue, you are alone. You were born alone and you shall die alone." Aemond moved his eye from his sister to his wife looking for an answer, his wife nodded and kept her violet eyes on Rhaenyra as Aemond grabbed Viserys' dagger and dragged it across her throat. She did not fight back, she did not defend herself and she did not flee. She had understood that she may have had the Throne, but she did not have the Kingdom. Her fight was lost from the beginning.

Aemond rushed for his wife as his sisters blood flowed out on the marble floor. "I will never leave you again, ever" he swore and removed her chains. "Did she do this to you?" he asked as he carefully traced her wounds with his finger checking their severity and for infection. She only nodded and clung to his chest, sobbing uncontrollably and shaking like a leaf, wincing as he wrapped her in his cloak.

Aemond had Rhaenyras body impaled in the city square along with her husbands head. There they were to remain until they fell to the ground.

His wife looked so scared and distraught that he did not leave her side for a week, he bathed her, cleaned her wounds and held her at night when the nightmares took her. He swore to never leave her behind again, His Queen would never be alone again. She meant everything to him and he refused to think about the fact that he had almost lost her. "Never again, my love" he whispered and kissed her neck, her hand entangling in his hair, his hands roaming over her familiar body and an ache returning to his lower stomach. "My Queen".

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #fanfiction #aemond x wife #house of the dragon #team green #rhaenyra targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #Aemond Targaryen fanfiction

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anniways-hell · 1 year

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Cute HC’s: Daemon Targaryen

Part 2: Reader meeting Caraxes

➼ First when Daemon took you to beloved Caraxes, he would make sure, that you feel save. Dragonpit can seem quite horrifying for new visitors, due to darkness and underground.

➼ He for sure would hold your hand, showing you the other dragons from the distance, but keeping it respectful, since dragons won't accept Intruders.

➼ As you walked down many stairs, you arrive on another underground level, which turns out to be Caraxes. Daemon would step forward, still holding your hand but also lighting you the way. ➼ Soon you would discover a pair of silver eyes, especially focusing on you. You get a strange feeling, like the creature in the dark is trying to pierce you with it's stare but also to sense who you are.

➼ The tension is almost completely gone, when you hear a soft growl. Like a really soft dragon purring. Daemon would tell you, that this is a very good start, if you consider that Caraxes is known to be quite moody or impulsive like his rider. At the thought of it, you can see a slight chuckle appearing on your princes face.

➼ After this Daemon would give Caraxes some nice scratches on his snout, he'd be inviting you to try too. Nothing goes over snout scratches! The dragon would love you right from the start, also sensing in which way you are connected to Daemon. ➼ As you try it, you can feel the hardened skin underneath your fingertips. Another soft growl would escape, which for sure would make Daemon grin. "Ao jorrāelagon bona, paktot?" [You're loving this, right?] Now a louder growl is heard and you can feel the vibration of the bloodwyrms body under your hand. It almost seems like Caraxes would talk back to Daemon and complaining about his statement. (As I mentionend - he's a little bit of a drama dragon ngl) ➼ After taking your time, Daemon would help you up Caraxes back and hold you very close to him, wrapping an arm around you in a protective way, pulling you close to his chest, while holding the reins with the other hand. ➼ As you feel Caraxes taking steps, leaving through a long tunnel till reaching the outside, you're already starting to like that feeling. Not only because of your favourite dragon rider, sitting behing you.

#cute headcanons #headcanon #hotd #hotd headcanon #got #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #caraxes

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chromiumagellanic06 · 30 days

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The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 7: Daemon

MASTERLIST

Summary: Daemon thinks back on his life and makes an intriguing but infuriating discovery about Naera. Naera dreams of an old encounter in the Shadowlands.

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: nothing, really

Daemon Targaryen had lived a life tainted by death, war and distrust. He had fought for a succession which he had been denied, fought for a bride which he had been denied, and fought a war also, the War of the Stepstones, which he had won, only to relinquish his crown in exchange for his brother’s favour and love. His brother had refused to let him join King’s Landing's court in any proper demeanours, refused to specify his place in the line of succession, refused him his chosen bride and refused him another war when the sailors had gotten their crabs again and returned things to the way they had been.

Tap.

Yet, Daemon had said nothing. He had felt nothing new other than the rage on his brother, on those who manipulated him, on his own weakness which had failed him in those wars, and he knew that he would lose again. He would lose, and lose, but the Gods are just, and they shall grant him solace for his losses.

In all his life, Daemon had owned only three things he considered precious—his sword of Valyrian Steel, Dark Sister, with which he had slain and injured and watched life pour out of men faster than he had felt wine pour down his mouth, his Crown of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, won with fire and blood and death and devastation, but it had been his, which he had happily surrendered for his family and his heritage. He prided his heritage, his blood that came from Old Valyria, his fire that had been borne out of dragons, his dragon, Caraxes, the Bloodwyrm, and his family, despite his disapproval of his brother’s weakness in matters of all heirship, diplomacy and action, his older niece’s idiocy in ruining her political position by bearing children which so brazenly lacked Valyrian heritage, and his ingrained hatred for all his brother’s children from his second marriage—the drunkard idiot raper, the miss-eye thieving cunt, the infant whose name resembled his, and the little girl with her bugs and silence. They all meant nothing to him because they weren’t dragons. They were sheep, and dragons should never have mingled with the scum in the first place. The dragons should have flown above the forever, kept to themselves, and never allowed filth into their bloodline. Alas, it had been done, and now the consequences were all that remained to be dealt with.

He could feel a war coming, could feel the calm before the storm that swirled even then. It wouldn’t be soon, not anytime near, but eventually, some little ant will consider himself a King, and all hell would rain down, in fire and blood, and he was not going to let the Greens win.

He would sooner burn them all.

Tip-tip.

He had not known what to make of his brother’s stupidity in forcing another marriage on him after the Bronze Bitch of the Vale—he remembered Viserys’ sentiment when he had stated that Daemon would have everything he had ever wanted—a Valyrian bride, who had been defiled and dirtied by the Dornish and the Dothraki, then wandered off to forbidden lands of shadows and darkness and learning, removed from the line of succession, forgotten by all in Westeros but by a handful of Citadel maesters and cunts who still dared insult her, and then called back, handed to him to salvage and protect, when it was clear from the years of rumours and centuries of legends which she had left behind in her wake, that she was the last person who needed protecting.

It had all been a filthy, patronizing joke to put him in his place and hope for his satisfaction. The stench of the Hightower cunts—of his brother’s beloved, primped and prepared Queen, was all over it. Alicent, he knew, would die by his hand in the war if it ever came, and he also knew that it would. There was a storm already brewing, in every snide comment and disdainful glance at Rhaenyra’s children, at every brandished green or black gown donned by the women for their factions, in every word spoken and every breath taken, the seeds of war had been sown. It was only a matter of time.

Tip-tap.

Perhaps, this is what would set it in place. The death of his bride, his niece, the beloved Silver Knight of the East—no, of the West, where she had grown, but also of the East, where she had been known, and where she still was known. He did not know what had happened, and he would not know ever, perhaps. He did not know why her dragon had fled the pits, why she believed him to have flown to Asshai, why she had torn from his embrace screaming in pain. He did not know anything about her, and Alicent had already mustered that fact for herself.

She had questioned him for her state, blaming him in all but the direct phrases, but the thin watery veil had ripped away when Viserys had snapped at his Queen, and put her down for her words. For once, his brother had been strong, and Daemon would have smiled had it not been under those circumstances.

For all Daemon knew, the Greens could have poisoned her before the wedding. They had enough reason for it, with her quickly growing reputation and her academic splendour, and the fact that she had dragged the Dornish to attend the wedding-Qoren Martell himself, which would provide the opportunity for an alliance. She was resourceful, and brilliant, and principally exotic, as Daemon saw her. It could be them, it probably was, but he had no path to prove their involvement, no method to ruin them, not without her mind and her ideas and her relations. He had nothing without her, and yet, he had nothing of her.

Tap, tap, tap, tapping droplets, were all he heard, those which spilt off Naera’s bedside table and hit the floor beneath, from when he had knocked over a pitcher of water. Tap, tapping, tip, tip, splat, and it sounded a little different every time. Daemon sat alone beside her, staring at her closed eyes and slackened shoulders.

He did not move. He only looked.

He had been surprised, annoyed, understanding and a thousand other things by her resistance—she had run, she had refused, and she had escaped him several times already. She had refused gifts, cut down advancements, and avoided him at every turn, except when she hadn’t.

There were times, and those were the very times which gave him hope, the times when she had not refused him, at the very least, not at first. Sure, he could count the encounters on his fingers and still have half his hand left unsatisfied, and sure, she had crawled away to her writings and her musings and absent gazes and glossy eyes, and those dozens of languages she had mastered and her god-awful penmanship, soon enough afterwards, but the path was clearly set—he’d have her, one day, one night, and forever after, and be satisfied.

He had not been satisfied for very long, with both his material desires and his needs for recognition. His favourite brothels had not seen him since that night, that strange night, when he had held her, kissed her, felt her against his skin, if only for a moment. Like a man far stepped into insanity does not know the pleasure of drawing blood until his first murder, Daemon had never really known the luxury and pleasure that came with his niece—he had been enamoured, even if he realised it hours after his wrath at her declaration faded away, even if he had never quite gotten a taste of her to satisfy his hunger, but he knew then, that perhaps, his brother had been right—he would be satisfied by Naera—he would be made happy by Naera.

Though, not then. She would make him happy, and he'd spend his life trying to do the same, only if he could get her to stay. Dragonstone, alone, he would not tolerate. He had never acknowledged the demand again. He would not accept it. He needed her.

Her skin had gained an oily, greasy sheen, perhaps from the sweat, perhaps from the ointments he had seen Maester Mellos spread across her eyes. There is no sign of a wound, they had said, adamant, pulling down her lids to make him see the rosy flesh and whitened surfaces of the eyes. There was no wound, but he had seen her weep crimson.

Where had the blood come from, which they had themselves seen her matted in, which they had seen dry and crust on her cheeks and drip torturously slow down the sides of her neck? If there was no wound, there could have been no blood, and there could have been no pain, but she had screamed aloud for all to hear. He hadn’t been able to help her at all, besides holding her still, before the maesters dragged her away to her chambers and examined her sleeping form for hours.

Incompetent, all of them, Daemon had decided when they only prescribed sedatives and anaesthetics and ointments for the scratches, she had inflicted on herself. He had spoken to his grace, hoping to have his brother send for Eastern healers, for Naera had certainly trusted them more than the Citadel’s finest. Viserys had promised to try, but the way his brother had paled and sweated and stumbled away from her chambers, after nearly everyone had left, told Daemon enough that he wasn’t going to make it to his desk that night.

He needed to send for healers himself, as fast as he could, before hope could be lost—just, that he knew none. He had had no need for such healers, and who was he to ask, besides the doubtful old maester? Not enough, he knew.

Naera’s skin had taken to a sickly pale hue, growing green, then mustard yellow, then back to the face which reminded him of split cream. There's hardly any point in crying over split milk, she had told him once, and the memory made him close his eyes with ire. Why now, why so close to their wedding, so soon after Wisestone’s disappearance?

He recalled the night in vivid detail, the way her eyes had twinkled as she sought out a devious plan to orchestrate their wishes, the way she had written fast—written, on a desk full of correspondence—written. Daemon stood. There, Naera had known the best and mightiest of Essos, and she had written to many. Surely, he could find something in her study?

The door to Naera’s study creaked open slowly, splintering and heaving under the effort. He stepped inside, a candle held in his hand to guide his way through the darkness.

A lone, golden flame sparkled in the study, on her desk, illuminating a sphere around itself. Daemon crept forward, avoiding collisions with chairs and stacks of books, and lit every candle in his path. He lit many—but there were twice as many left, and even though the room glowed yellow and he could see every scrap of parchment, there were more candles to be lit, too many. He ignored the remainder and walked around her desk, passing a faded landscape in progress.

He pulled her chair backwards a foot, flinched at the shrill dragging that sounded, and then sat down on the ebony cushion. Comfortable, was his first thought, and he dragged the chair towards the desk and settled down. There was an assortment of inks laid out before him—black, blue, red, purple and magenta, he had seen, but he noticed rose, and silver, and a forested green also, alongside bundles of feather quills. There were twine-bound papers, yellowed with age and dusk and tainted with spills and burns, arranged in piles, all around the edges of the desk. Her manuscripts laid before him, every single one of them, and he wondered if he’d need to read them all before finding that which he needed. His eyes glazed over the nearest one, and he could recognize words such as mountain pass and leather making, and he swore, silent, to the Old Gods of Valyria, that he'd read them all one day. He'd read every word written by his lady wife, and appreciate them also.

Daemon began at the first letter on her table. Its seal was broken, covers crumbled, and scanning the contents with haste, he found it to be correspondence with a spice merchant near Pentosh. He referred to the next but discarded it upon noticing a rose emblem at its seal. Tyrell. The next, and the next, and he saw letters by old friends and neighbours in Mereen and Astapor, diplomatic correspondence with Dorne, personal letters to friends and noblemen and women all across Westeros, and political reports from Qarth. He chose not to question the address of that final letter, which called his niece One of the Thirteen of Qarth. It was a tale for another day, and he did not need to pry more than necessary. She’d recite all those tales to him one day, confess every crime and speak of every accomplishment she had endured and committed in her years away. Not today.

The next letter he read was odd. My Love, it addressed, and he stopped in his tracks. He knew that Naera had had lovers in the past, her Dornish prince, her Dothraki relations, rumoured or not, as much as he was irked at their mention, he had never considered her to still hold an affair. It filled him with wrath, almost, burning and irritating, and he brought the letter closer to his eyes, reading the looping, dragging, beautiful penmanship in blood-red ink.

The truth you seek isn’t one I can grant you; Daemon furrowed his eyebrows. A Mystery, a truth sought by his niece, one denied by someone who calls her his Love. You must discover it yourself, for that is the will of the Lord of Light. The will of the Lord of Light? A Priest—a red priest, of all people, then, who his to-be lady wife still loved, but his curiosity rose above his ire at the next statement. I worry that the visions aren’t those granted by the Lord of Light, but I cannot presume. Visions? Naera had never mentioned visions, she had never mentioned any religion of any kind, at all.

Daemon knew that the Red Priests and Priestesses of the Shadowlands, those who preached the faith of R’hllor, watched flames for their visions, and interpreted them for the commands of their God.

You must devote yourself to him, and ask for his blessings of Light, for the night is dark and full of terrors. The night is dark, and full of terrors, and the near hundred candles in her study made sense. The faith of light, from the Shadowlands, where Wisestone had fled. Visions? Her agitation, her headaches, and her behaviours made sense, just another fraction of it.

The letter was unsigned, unmarked, with no emblem on the broken wax seal, just the red ink. Yet, the writing seemed familiar. The looping, rounding, dragging beautiful writing seemed familiar. He leaned back, the parchment still in his hand, and stared at the golden flames around him. He saw nothing in the flames but the flicker of fire, nothing in the light but the surroundings of the study. His eyes narrowed at a portrait, hung across from the desk, of a beautiful face, dressed in red. It was new, he had not seen it on his last visit, but his Naera’s signature by the edge made him curious.

The face was familiar, with its melancholy eyes and copper hair, flaming pupils and downset shoulders. A ruby glimmered at the woman’s throat, shining the same colour as her eyes. She wore red, a red cloak, rosy lips, pale, unblemished skin—ah.

He knew her.

Lady Melisandre, from the journal.

He knew her hand. She had written the letter. She had called his niece Love; she had asked his niece to commit to her faith to solve her visions. What had she hidden from him, from all of them, he did not know.

A clatter, from the bedroom beside him. He shot to his feet, the letter forgotten on Naera’s table, panic rushing up him. No one was set to visit, and the maesters had advised him to leave her alone also. The maids had been forbidden from entrance for the safety, and two members of the Kingsguard had been stationed outside her doors. All incompetent, Daemon knew, and his heart hammered in his chest as he tightened a grasp on his sword and made his way to the bedroom.

Shhh…

Naera’s eyes snapped open. It was dim, but not dark, but too blurry to see anything. Her head dizzied over, hitting something hard as it fell back. The impact sent an ounce of pain through her head, and her vision cleared off.

She stared to her left, and her right, at the ebony frames and iron ornaments she could see and feel, and the ground and seat beneath her moved rhythmically, mimicking steps in sync. She was in a palanquin. All around her, there was red—red curtains, red light, and oh, red woman. Melisandre sat opposite her, with a pale, slender finger to her lip, whispering words she couldn’t hear, sounds that were heard distantly, as though a wall of water blocked and rippled the voices.

Shhh…

Naera reached forth, finding her woman’s skin, and held Melisandre close, lost for words. No, she would not let go. My Love, she heard in her mind, look, and when Naera turned her eyes and she followed the priestess’ direction, she peered out of the partition in the red curtains at the world without.

She saw stone, obsidian stone, towering up, up and high, tinged with green, as the sky shadowed black, and she could see no life, no people, no trees, no plants. There was only a river, a river of glowing green that poured by the very feet of the slave men who carried their palanquin, where it bubbled with a darkness she couldn’t bear to stare into. She could smell the acrid stench of the green liquids, could see the thin layers of steaming vapours they sent up with every slow movement.

Naera let her eyes glaze over their path, and looked up, and there was almost a hole in the sky. Between the swirling, contorted, cursed black storm clouds, at the very centre, was a blast of light, pouring straight down to illuminate a city of black stone and towering palaces, where the glowing, frothing, bubbling, burning green river ended, and winged creatures, the shade of coal and ink, flew round the tallest towers and preyed on ill fish and dying wanderers.

Stygai, the Corpse City of the Shadowlands. Melisandre let the curtain fall, and blocked Naera’s sight. She curled a hand around Naera’s cheek, and dragged her face forward, to stare, red eyes to lilac eyes, and to touch, pale skin to sun-bronzed skin, and she smiled, eyes twinkling, hopeful, glad, happy but with a darkness, mysterious, and oh, so very seductive with those flaming red eyes that shone like stars in the darkness, and the large set ruby at her neck that glowed and pulsed with every breath.

Naera swallowed, struggling to breathe as the air felt sudden and hot and humid, gazing at the red woman’s eyes in her sunken, shadowed sockets, at the unblemished skin of her face, at the fire in her eyes, and she leaned forward, and gave her a kiss. My love, she heard again, in her mind, my Knight, and her kiss grew desperate, a battle bound to be lost, my princess, and Naera gasped, moaned, cried in pleasures unfound, as her eyes opened to bright light, to the sunlight that poured around her.

She sat up, head heavy, eyes drooping, and sighed at the hollowness in her heart. A dream. She looked around, searching for water, but the half-empty jar of milk of the poppy by her bed sent panic through her heart. She remembered, the pain, the gold, the sleep—how long had passed? She went through the jars and bottles she assumed Mellos had left by her side, beside the milk of the poppy. Herbal teas, Essence of Nightshade, ointments and other mild poisons to keep her sedated. Useless.

She reached out her hand towards a bottle by the edge of the desk, its label faded away, but there was an ointment within. What had they done to her? Grasping the glass jar of ointment, she yanked her hand towards herself, hitting the vessel that housed the milk of the poppy down to the floor. It collided against the wet floor with a clatter, but Naera did not care.

She opened the ointment jar, ignoring the sounds that came from her study, and sniffed the substance. There was olive oil, a numbing agent by the burn, wheat or starch for the viscosity—harmless, and useless.

Daemon barged into her bed-chamber from her study, panicked, a hand set on his sword. The serenity of the room died away, and fright, movement, and a rush took its place. Naera did not move, still holding the glass jar, raising an eyebrow at her uncle.

“You’re awake…” he spoke, opening and closing his mouth, unsure of words, searching for the right phrase as though he had a hundred to utter. Oh, he had seen something he shouldn’t have, in her study. He should not have ventured there at all, really. It was an invasion of her privacy, but she knew that he would hardly be bothered, as the man who taught the citizens of King’s Landing to fear the gold cloaks that were supposed to serve them.

He saw her eyes set behind him, at the door to the study, and an inkling of guilt washed over him. He swallowed cautiously.

“How long was I asleep?” Naera set down the jar when her uncle relaxed his grip on his sword, manoeuvring her legs down to the floor. She flinched at the wet sensation at her feet, staring down to discern the source of the icky stickiness. Naera stood on dry floor, dragging her feet against the carpets to dry them, and made for the door.

Daemon crossed the room in three strides. He caught Naera by the arms and pulled her into his embrace, sighing at the way the pained panic ebbed out of his body, and he turned his head to whisper a soft "shhh..." in her ear. He took a step forward, and another, and another, and gently pushed her back onto the mattress, still holding her.

“Too long,” he confessed.

MASTERLIST

#daemon targeryan #original female character #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon x oc #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #team black #house martell #dance of dragons #melisandre of asshai #melisandre #daemon x y/n #daenerys targeryan #azor ahai #dreams #fanfiction #archive of our own

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amazingnerd · 11 months

Text

The Dragons Fire.

Chapter 7.

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!OC!Reader

Themes: Cursing (as per usual), tense situations, lowkey protective Daemon, protective Gaelyra, interrogation, descriptions of gore.

Previous: Chapter 6

Next: Chapter 8

Daemon was right. Dragons are much faster than horses. They haven't been riding long, only a few hours, and Gaelyra can already recognize some of the towns and roads as they fly high in the sky. She's almost home.

They left King's Landing just as the darkness of night consumed the sky. Viserys gave them his blessing to go, Rhaenyra wished them good luck and a safe stay, but Jaegar... he doesn't know that they are coming. Gaelyra tried to look for him before she and Daemon left but she was told by Otto that her lord father had already departed for the Riverlands. She gave the hand a swift thanks before she left to meet Daemon, and they went to the pit.

Their things were already there on Caraxes. Nothing much, just a few things for them to have while they stay in Gaelyra's family home.

Gaelyra sits behind Daemon as Caraxes weaves smoothly through the sky. Her arms are wrapped around his waist, her body pressed against his as she looks out at the land ahead of them. It's very dark, so it is hard to see, but Gaelyra does not fear flying as she once did when she first took to the skies on the BloodWyrm. Even in the darkness of night, she does not feel afraid as they move through the sky, because she's going home.

It must be near the middle of the night before they begin to descend, and Gaelyra sees a collection of lights in the distance. Then, she and Daemon fly over a lake so dear to her heart, and she smiles. She's home.

She can hear distant shouts as Caraxes gets closer to the ground. They find a clearing in the forest surrounding the Vaela castle and Caraxes touches down, shaking off his shoulders and wings as a quiet groan rumbles through his chest. Daemon dismounts first, lifting his hand to Gaelyra to help her down. She takes it and slides down from the saddle, looking to the forest as a group of men come breaking through the brush, her fathers guards.

All of them are tense, all of them hold the pommel of their swords, not yet drawing their blades but ready to do so at a moments notice. They see Daemon first, and as Gaelyra steps around her fiancé to face the men, they all immediately relax and release a collective sigh of relief. The men move their hands from their swords to bow for Gaelyra, and she smiles kindly at the men in greeting.

Their commander, a man by the name Alek, steps forward, placing a hand onto his heart and bowing his head to her, "Forgive us, my lady. We did not know what to expect when we saw the dragon in the sky." He says.

Gaelyra shakes her head, "I understand completely, Ser Alek. I am glad that in my absence, my family has had men such as yourselves ready to defend at a moments notice. Even in the face of a beast such as Caraxes here," she says, placing a hand onto the dragons jaw, earning a quiet noise from Caraxes.

Ser Alek bows his head in a nod, "Thank you, my lady. Please allow me and my men to escort you and the prince to the Vaela castle." He says, gesturing with a wave of his hand to the path that he and his men came from.

Gaelyra nods her head to the men, and she gestures with a wave of her hand towards her family home, "Lead the way."

It is a short walk through the forest to the home of the Vaela family. The iron gates are lifted for them and they walk inside the small courtyard outside the grand doors of the Vaela castle.

The courtyard is practically empty thanks to the late hour, but a few guards and servants move into the courtyard to see who has arrived, and surprised whispers move through the air. The jewel of the Riverlands has returned home. Why? Why is she here? With the prince accompanying her?

Gaelyra expected the shock she sees in the faces of those that work for her family. Knowing her father as she does, Jaegar probably kept the threats to the Vaela's a secret except to those on his close circle of guards. Such as Ser Alek and his men. Despite her fathers attempts to keep things under wraps, she can sense the tension in the air around her. The assassination attempt on Fiyona is definitely known by everyone here, and it's got them all on guard.

Gaelyra can see Daemon out of the corner of her eye. She does not miss the way his eyes scan the entire courtyard, his steely gaze cutting through the air like a knife through butter. He has the eyes of a warrior, of a man searching for any danger so that he may squash it into dust.

She reaches over and places a hand onto his arm, drawing his attention to her. She smiles softly at him, a reassurance, and he nods, his lip quirking up into a brief ghost of a smile before he turns his gaze to look ahead. Just then, the doors to the grand mansion open and Gaelyra looks over. Her expression immediately softens as she sees her mother running out to meet them, in her night clothes and a robe, clutching her skirts and running to her daughter, her silver hair billowing behind her.

The older woman collides with Gaelyra, wrapping her arms around her daughter and holding her tight, "Oh my daughter!" Ellya cries out, running a hand down Gaelyra's head in a soothing motherly motion.

Gaelyra smiles gently and she wraps her own arms around her mother, giving her a squeeze, "Hello mother." She says, her voice soft.

Ellya pulls away and looks at her daughter, placing her hands upon her cheeks, "My dear child, why did you not tell us you were coming? We would have planned a homecoming feast for you and your intended," she turns her gaze over to Daemon, and she bows her head, "Prince Daemon, I hope the journey here was easy." She says, speaking politely.

Daemon almost doesn't hear Ellya's words, he's too busy looking between her and his betrothed. They both look so similar. He has heard tale of the lady Vaela's extraordinary, goddess like beauty, and even in her older age, lady Ellya is still extremely beautiful. Now he understands where Gaelyra got her beauty, because it certainly wasn't from lord Jaegar.

He looks at Ellya, and he nods his head, "It was an easy one, I can assure you." He says.

Ellya nods, "Come, let us go inside. The night is cold and you must be tired," she turns her attention to a nearby group of servants, "Have my daughters old quarters prepared. And have someone prepare a room for the prince," she says.

The servants nod and enter the castle, leaving the lady Ellya to attend to her daughter and the prince. She smiles at the pair of them, "Follow me," she says, taking her shirts into her hands and walking back into the castle. Gaelyra and Daemon walk behind her, followed by Ser Alek and the rest of the guards.

As the loud creak of the grand oak doors echoes behind them, Gaelyra feels relieved to be back in her home. However, she cannot ignore the feeling of dread that creeps into her chest the further she goes into her beloved family home, and she finds herself resting her hand upon the pommel of her trusted sword, Emerald Sting.

••••

Gaelyra did not sleep that night. She spent the whole night with her mother in the library of their home, talking with her about what has really been going on in their home since Gaelyra left.

"For a while, things were normal." Ellya had told her, "But once we returned home from your engagement feast... things... changed."

The first letter had arrived the day after they returned from kings landing. The letters were full of threats and disturbing words. Promises of death, blood, and suffering to all those within the Vaela house. A warning of what was to come.

Not long after that, more letters began to arrive. Jaegar did not want to entertain whoever was sending the threats and so, thinking that perhaps it was just a ruse to frighten him, he decided to burn any new message straight away without even opening the neatly sealed envelope. Somehow whoever was sending these letters found out about this, and that was when the manticore was given to Fiyona. Samruel killed the insect and captured the assassin that gave it to Fiyona, and this assassin is currently in the dungeons below the Vaela castle.

"Has anyone questioned this man yet?" Gaelyra asked her mother.

Ellya nodded in response, "Of course, but he's only said one thing since Sam captured him."

"And what was that?"

"'Do we have your attention now?'"

Those words repeat over and over within Gaelyra's mind. Even now, hours later, as she sits in the gardens of her home, she keeps hearing those words in her mind. But instead of her mothers voice uttering those words in her memory, she hears the voice of a cold blooded killer.

"Do we have your attention now?"

Anger boils within her, and the leaf she had been twirling in her hand is crushed and discarded on the ground as she stands and walks back into the halls of the castle. Soon she is at her room and she storms inside, throwing open her wardrobe doors and taking out her sword. Once the scabbard of Emerald Sting hangs at her hip, she reaches inside a hidden drawer and she takes out a dagger.

The blade is small. Unlike her sword, it is not Valyrian steel. Instead the blade is made from pure silver, as is the handle, with some gold and jewel attachments. The jewels are rubies, pure and perfectly cut. This dagger is made to be precise and deadly despite its small size. It is a family heirloom that was passed down to her father from his father, and his father before him. It was a gift from her father for her ten and fifth name day.

She attaches the dagger and its sheath to her hip and she turns, leaving her room and entering the corridors once more. She knows exactly where she is going. It is not even midday and Gaelyra already has a mission for herself. Gods help anyone who may get in her way.

"And where are you off to with that much anger in your eyes?"

She stops and turns, seeing Daemon leaning against a pillar in the hall. His arms are crossed and his expression is amused as he watches her. Usually that face of his could push her to laugh, or smile, but now she's too full of determination to stop and make idle chat with her betrothed.

"To cut the neck of the man who tried to kill my sister." She answers.

Daemon raises a brow, "You're off to cause trouble at this early hour, without me?" He pushes himself off the pillar to walk towards her and he stops, looking down at her with a small smile. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "I'm hurt." He says.

Gaelyra frowns, "Daemon." She chides, letting out a low sigh, "I am not in the mood to jest. My family is under attack." She moves past him but he stops her by grabbing her wrist and holding her there. She turns to him with an irritated expression and he meets her irritation with a warm calm in his eyes as he speaks, "They are not under attack now. You should not exhaust yourself. Have you done anything but pace since we got here?" He seems to examine her face a little bit closer and he sighs at what he sees, leaning back and looking into her eyes, "When did you last sleep?" He questions.

She does not respond. But he has his answer. He can see the exhaustion on her face, he sees the dark bags beneath her eyes and the distant look within her pools of green, so he does not need her to answer with her words for him to know that she has, in fact, not slept since they arrived the previous night.

He sighs, "Gaelyra, you cannot face this man looking as weak as you do now." He sees the flames of anger quickly forming in her eyes and he holds his hand up to stop her, quickly adding on, "If you are to interrogate him, you must appear as strong and threatening as possible. And for that, you need to sleep."

As much as Gaelyra wants to argue with him, she hasn't slept in well over two days. Even as she stands there, completely still, she can feel the slight tremble in her hand and the heaviness on her shoulders. She can assume she doesn't look much better than she feels. If she is to face this assassin, she needs to appear strong. She needs to appear as if she isn't afraid. She is a member of the Vaela house, a future princess and Targaryen, she must be strong. Like steel. She can't do that if she's exhausted.

She sighs, her shoulders drooping, "Fine." She says. She turns around and walks back down the hallway to her room, and she is aware of the sound of a pair of footsteps following her. She sighs, "Daemon, I can walk myself to my room. Thank you." She says, her tone short and sharp.

She can hear him chuckle behind her, "Forgive me for caring, betrothed." He says, and she can guess that he's grinning at her. It's exactly the type of thing he'd do.

Daemon follows her until she's in her room, and even as she removes her dagger and sword from around her hips, he does not take his eyes off of her. She sees this, and she sighs, shaking her head and placing her weapons onto the armchair by her bedroom window. She lays down on her bed, over the covers, and she closes her eyes.

With her eyes still closed, she hears the faint sounds of someone moving in the room as Daemon tries get comfortable. It both annoys her that he won't leave her be, and it warms her heart to have him care enough to watch over her as she rests.

This warmth remains in her heart as she drifts off to sleep, finally able to rest knowing that once she wakes, she will be able to make the one that tried to kill Fiyona pay.

••••••

When she awoke, Daemon was still there in her room. He was standing by her window and his gaze was focused on the forest surrounding her home. So much space to hide. Anyone could be there, watching. Waiting.

He is still there by her side as she leaves her room and heads for the dungeons. Close but still behind her, keeping an ever watchful eye over Gaelyra.

There are two guards outside the cell when Gaelyra and Daemon arrive. The two men bow to them and step to the side for them to pass, and Gaelyra turns to face her prince, "You will wait here." She says.

He frowns, and her expression hardens, "I must do this alone. No arguments. You will wait here." She says, her voice stern.

He clenches his jaw and leans down to whisper to her, "If I hear anything, if he tries anything I will not hesitate to-" "I can handle myself." She assures him, "But if it comforts you, should things escalate you are more than welcome to intervene. I am not entirely confident that I can remain composed in the face of the man who tried to kill my sister."

He nods, satisfied, and he takes a step back from her. She turns to the door, taking the key from the guard and unlocking the door before she enters the cell, the guards locking the door behind her and assuming their positions.

The cell is dark, and cold, with only a single torch lit by the door. This single torch allows her to get a proper look at the assassin tied to a chair in the middle of the room.

The man is thin and pale. He has no hair on his head, but he has a long beard that reaches his chest. The hair of his beard is a sandy blonde color, and his eyes are brown. Brown and empty of all warmth, the gaze of an expert in facades. Of gaining someone's trust for only a moment, long enough to kill someone.

His eyes are focused on the stone floor of the cell, and he does not look up at her. She stops and stands just out of his line of sight. Her eyes stare at him in silence, taking in every last detail about him from his clothes and their color to any identifiable marks on his skin. From his appearance now, he looks like any other plain citizen. Someone with an untrained eye, someone like Fiyona, wouldn't think twice about receiving a gift from someone such as this.

But Gaelyra sees right through him.

If only she'd been here. She wouldn't have allowed Fiyona to even take the box, Fiyona would have never been in danger. The thought of what could have happened had Fiyona gone into town alone that day makes Gaelyra's stomach churn.

"So tell me," She says to break the long standing silence between them, "What kind of man tries to kill an unarmed woman?" She questions as she begins to move towards him.

He does not answer, nor does he look up, but he does hear her. She can tell, and so she continues in her words, "I don't think a man with any kind of honor would try to kill someone as unarmed as she was. But what do I know of it? I am not a coward. I would never think to attack an undeserving opponent. I kill because I have to, but you?" Her boot heels tap against the stone floor as she glares down at him, "You are among the worst kind of filth on this earth, a breed that does not deserve the air you breathe, and yet, you try to take it from those who do deserve it." Her voice is practically a growl now.

He still does not turn his head to look at her and her fingers twitch in anger as she throws her hand forward to strike him across the cheek, forcing his head to turn to the side before she grabs his beard and pulls it forward roughly. The action makes the chair tilt forward on its legs as she forces him to look her in the eyes, and she burns holes into his face with her gaze as she speaks, "Who sent you to kill Fiyona Vaela?" She says.

He does not answer. But his eyes are focused on her now, staring at her with a certain indifference that makes her blood boil. She yanks his beard hard enough to pull out some hairs and she reaches to her belt, drawing her dagger and pressing it against the skin of his throat, "I know you heard me. Answer me or I will carve out your throat and bring it to my father." She seethes, pressing her blade further into his skin, enough for him to feel the sharp edge of the dagger.

She watches him as he slowly moves his gaze to look into her eyes. His eyes lack any fear despite her dagger pressing into the vein of his neck, and he analyzes her with the calmness of a predator. He does something that surprises her. Something he apparently has not done much of since he was captured. He speaks. "What is your name?" He questions, speaking as if this is just any other conversation on any other day.

She raises a brow at him, staying silent for a moment, before a chuckle slips past her lips, "Someone has a knife to your throat, and that is the question you ask?" She says.

He is expressionless as he answers, "I have a message for someone in the Vaela house. And looking at you now," his eyes move up and down her figure slowly, his gaze focusing on her once more, "I can assume you are the one I was meant to find."

She scoffs, "So what? You are some kind of messenger?"

"I am whatever my employer tells me to be."

"What are you then?"

"A warning."

Despite her dagger pressed into his throat, he leans forward, pressing his skin further into the blade and drawing blood onto the steel, the droplets moving down the blade and landing onto the stone floor as a whisper moves past his lips;

"We are coming for you. Lady Gaelyra." His words are a hissing whisper, "We are coming for you. And for everything you hold dear. By the time we are done, the Riverlands shall be awash with Vaela blood."

The warning is plain and clear. A message for her and her only. Whoever sent this man to kill Fiyona did so only so that Gaelyra would receive this message. This warning.

Gaelyra can not even begin to count the number of times she has been threatened in her life. But she does not care enough to count. If someone wants to threaten her, they may do as they please, but she has never taken too kindly to threats against her family.

She swallows the growing lump in her throat, and her hand tightens around her dagger, "Is that all?" She questions.

He gives a small nod, "That is all I have to say. I know nothing of my employer, I know not what their plan is, so, I have nothing for you." He says.

Gaelyra scowls, and she presses her dagger harder against his throat, "Very well then."

The guards outside, and Daemon, who leans against the stone wall, are startled as they hear a thud sound from the prison cell. Not even a moment later the door swings open and out walks Gaelyra. Her gaze is focused ahead and she does not look at the guards nor at Daemon as she moves down the corridor away from the cell, not bothering to close the door behind her. There's no need to.

Daemon turns to the cell and he halts in his movement, his eyes widening in slight shock. He quickly turns to follow after Gaelyra, not saying a word but following close behind her as the guards behind them take in the bloody scene within the prison cell.

Gaelyra feels fire in her skin as she walks through the corridors at a quick pace. Anyone she passes gasps in horror and points, but she keeps her gaze focused ahead as she heads for the courtyard.

The light of day is blinding to her as she steps out into the courtyard. Servants and guards walk around performing various tasks. Some are training, others are cleaning or straightening up, and there are some who are just sharing pleasant conversation with one another as they take a break from their daily duties. The sun against Gaelyra's hair creates a flaming beacon for all to see, and they turn to look at her.

Gasps are audible as she walks to the weapons rack at the edge of the courtyard, grabbing a spear and moving towards the courtyard. She sees movement on the balcony overlooking the courtyard and she glances up to see her father standing there with a horrified expression on his face. She knows that he will not be pleased with what she is doing. Jaegar has held this matter in the highest discretion, and under his watch there have been threats and attempts at murder, clearly discretion is not working anymore. They must send a message, loud and clear, that the Vaela house will not go down without a fight.

Gaelyra cares not what her father thinks, he may be against it, but she's going to send a message to those who dare make a move against her house.

Her returning expression is neutral as she moves to the center of the courtyard, finding a patch of dirt and stabbing the blunt end of the spear into the soft ground before she turns to address the large ground that has gathered around the space, "Hear me!" She shouts, "Threats have been made against me and my family. Just recently an attack was made against Fiyona Vaela, a woman guilty of no crime except bearing the Vaela name, this attack failed. Because the coward who arranged it did not come to do the deed himself, instead," she lifts her hand, and there is a head dangling within her grasp.

The assassin.

She grips his head by his beard, which is stained in blood. His mouth is slack jawed and limp, blood trailing from his neck and onto his face, streaming down his features all the way to the top of his bald head, dripping onto the cobblestone at Gaelyra's feet and collecting in a pool.

Her sword, Emerald Sting, is held in her other hand, the blade stained with the fresh blood of the assassin. She turns her head to the crowd, "They sent this man to do the deed for them." She turns to the spear she stabbed into the ground and after sheathing her sword she grabs the head on each side of the face and she stabs it onto the head of the spear, showing the head off for all to see.

"Someone within these walls told one of our enemies where the lady Fiyona would be. There is a spy! A traitor to my family!" She takes a step back, and she points to the man's head, "Let it be known, that anyone who strikes my family will not only face the wrath of the law they will face me! And I will show no mercy. To any man or woman who decides to hurt my family, this will be your fate!"

Her voice is strong as she looks at each and every face within the crowd, knowing that one of them, any of them, could be a spy. No one can be trusted. But now that she is home, she is going to find whoever is targeting her family, and she will destroy them.

A/N: I am so, so, SO sorry for the delay in the update. I'm ngl life has been hard lately but it's all good now and I'm going to try writing more so hopefully the updates will be closer together. Anyways I hope you guys like it! Things are really going to picking up from here so get ready my lovelies because I'M BACK! 💙

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